From the tobacco-stained mouths of some of these old blue-jackets (all of whom, I may mention, according to their own account, had fought 'alongside of the galyant Nelson'), many strange stories have been poured into my eager and willing ears, and even now a thrill of delight is evoked when any of these 'yarns' rise to remembrance. Still, the truth must be told: ever since I narrowly escaped drowning by plumping into the water backwards, from leaning against the unsnibbed-door of a bathing-machine, and at another time from being in a boat that, to my intense horror and dismay, had sprung a leak—I have enjoyed the sea best when my feet are on dry land; in other words, I like to view the 'world of fluid matter,' in its various phases, from a distant and perfectly safe point of view. Nay more, I can always better appreciate certain of its beauties (at all events during winter time) when seated by a warm fireside.
When lately in such a cosy position, my thoughts reverted to the marvellous operations ever going on within the liquid walls of the great deep. There artifices and stratagems, robbery and murder, and cannibalism in its worst forms continually occur. On the other hand, there may be scenes of courtship, touching instances of maternal affection, such as, were they chronicled, would make our hearts bleed with truest sympathy. Still, the Rob Roy maxim of
'They should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can,'
seems therein to be carried out with a rigour that would do honour to the 'bold outlaw Macgregor.' Might there is generally predominant over right. Fishes eternally prey upon each other; and for such reason, were it not for the wonderful fecundity of these creatures (one cod-fish, for instance, producing several millions of ova in a single season), we should soon have the waters depopulated of all but the monsters of the deep.
Now, knowing that such a state of things exists—that cannibalism is of such frequent occurrence, and the dogs of war are there ever let loose—the inquiry naturally presented itself: Are the inhabitants of the ocean a happy race or not? According to many writers, the answer must be given in the affirmative; nay, more, some authors state, and with good show of authority, too, be it observed, that fishes are in reality the happiest of created things, by reason that they have no fear or apprehension of death, nor are they subject to pain or disease, nor, in fact, to any of those ills that flesh is heir to. These creatures cannot, of course, live for ever; but by a merciful dispensation of Providence, their final pang endures but for an instant.
The celebrated St. Anthony is among the believers in the consummate happiness of the finny tribe. There is on record a discourse said to have been preached by him to an assembly of fish, in which they are flattered to an amazing extent. It almost rouses one's jealous ire to find such fulsome adulation bestowed upon the lower animals, at the expense of all other objects in nature, not excepting man himself. There is, however, such a singular force and truthfulness in some of the expressions and sentiments which occur in the Jesuitical discourse alluded to (given by Addison in his 'Remarks on Italy'), that I cannot resist the temptation of quoting a few of its most prominent passages.
We are told that St. Anthony, feeling annoyed at certain heretics not listening devoutly to his preaching, he determined to teach them a lesson; and for this purpose went down to the sea-shore, and called the fishes together in the name of God, that they might hear his holy word. The fish soon swam towards the speaker in vast shoals, and, having ranged themselves, according to their several species, into a very beautiful congregation, were addressed just as if they had been rational creatures.
The sermon commences in the following words:—
'My dearly-beloved Fish,—Although the infinite power and goodness of God discovers itself in all the works of his creation, as in the heavens, in the sun, in the moon, and in the stars—in the lower world, in man, and in other perfect creatures,—nevertheless, the goodness of the divine Majesty shines out in you more eminently, and appears after a more particular manner, than in any other created beings.
'It is from God, my beloved fish, that you have received being, life, motion, and sense. It is he that has given you, in compliance with your natural inclinations, the whole world of waters for your habitation. It is he that has furnished it with lodgings, chambers, caverns, grottoes, and such magnificent retirements as are not to be met with in the seats of kings or in the palaces of princes!